


That Rendezvous

by yet_intrepid



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Byron - Freeform, Gen, Literary References & Allusions, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 03:44:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I have a rendezvous with death</i>
  <br/><i>At some disputed barricade...</i>
</p>
<p>A series of vignettes leading up to and at the barricades, based around a WWI poem by Alan Seeger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Rendezvous

_I have a rendezvous with Death_   
_At some disputed barricade,_   
_When Spring comes back with rustling shade_  
 _And apple-blossoms fill the air—_

(April, 1832)

“The outbreaks of cholera are not slackening,” said Combeferre, dropping into a chair in the Musain across from Enjolras. His brow was creased with weariness and with worry. “And most doctors agree that it will only grow worse as summer comes. There is so much death, Enjolras, so much death…”

Feuilly interjected. “I’m hearing rumors,” he said. “There’s people that believe it’s not an accident, the cholera, and not an accident that it’s affecting so many of the poor. They think it’s the government; they think it’s poison.”

Combeferre looked up. “Some do argue that it’s caused by something ingested,” he said. “That’s Boisseau’s theory; he’s writing a book on cholera. But a poison?”

Feuilly shrugged. “I don’t know; it’s just what people are saying. But they’re angry.”

“If they’re angry,” said Enjolras, quietly, “you know what that means. It’ll come to the barricades before long.”

_I have a rendezvous with Death_   
_When Spring brings back blue days and fair._

(May, 1832)

Jehan, beneath a tree in the Luxembourg, was translating Byron as Bahorel lounged beside him, occasionally offering suggestions on the flow of a line. “If thou regret’st thy youth, why live?” murmured Jehan in English under his breath. “Bahorel, it is a thousand pities that we French have no thou, only tu and vous.”

Bahorel plucked at a strand of grass. “I’d have thought you’d say it was a pity the English can’t express the difference between tu and vous. What’s the next bit?”

Jehan read off the translation he had. “The land of honourable death / Is here:—up to the field, and give / Away thy breath!”

“In one sense, brilliant,” said Bahorel. “In another, rubbish. You needn’t regret your youth to give your breath.”

Jehan nodded. “Perhaps…perhaps it is truer that we will regret our youths if we do not give them away.”

_It may be he shall take my hand_   
_And lead me into his dark land_  
 _And close my eyes and quench my breath—_  
 _It may be I shall pass him still._

(June 5, 1832)

They had lived through half a dozen revolts at least, Courfeyrac reflected as he found his funeral waistcoat all too early in the morning and tiptoed around the sleeping Marius’ mattress on the floor. Not even any major injuries among the group. Still, if he stopped to think that—depending on circumstances entirely outside his control—he could be as dead as Lamarque in a day, he did feel a bit of a shiver and a catch in his throat. He was ready to give his life, ready to die, but he did not want to be cold and shut in a box with Latin muttered over him as his sisters wept.

He couldn’t bear thinking of it. And so he didn’t think of it. Instead, he tied his cravat and picked out a hat and hummed a few bars of the Marseillaise, while Marius slept on undisturbed.

_I have a rendezvous with Death_   
_On some scarred slope of battered hill,_   
_When Spring comes round again this year_   
_And the first meadow-flowers appear._

(June 5, 1832)

Feuilly came up the street from between shabby buildings on his way to Courfeyrac’s the morning of the funeral, and he thought of building, of what it took to make a home and to make a barricade, to lay a street with paving stones and to rip them up, leaving scars in the packed earth beneath. He thought of the grass that poked up between the stones, gentle and soft and vibrant despite the feet and horses’ hooves and carriage wheels, and he thought of the hope that springs in trampled hearts. He thought of hills, as he climbed one, of the rise and fall of the earth’s surface and the earth’s history, of abasement and elevation. And he thought, the hills may be battered, but they are still a path upwards.

_God knows ‘twere better to be deep_   
_Pillowed in silk and scented down,_   
_Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,_   
_Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,_   
_Where hushed awakenings are dear…_

(June 5, 1832)

“Joly,” whispered Bossuet. “You want breakfast?”

“Mm,” said Joly sleepily. The voice was warm and he was sinking in pillows and Musichetta’s hair was tickling his ear and the sun smelled of summer.

Bossuet sat down on the edge of the bed. “It’s eight o’clock,” he said, without the least trace of scolding or urgency.

“Mm,” said Joly.

“There are oysters at Corinthe,” said Bossuet.

“She’s breathing on my cheek,” said Joly. He wanted to go, and yet he didn’t.

And they smiled. They could wait for Musichetta to get up.

_But I’ve a rendezvous with Death_   
_At midnight in some flaming town,_   
_When Spring trips north again this year_

(June 6, 1832)

As they went into the lower room of the Corinthe for the uniforms, they paused a moment to look at one another. Because this was the beginning of the end—and since they were alone, a rare thing, they knew at once that this was also farewell.

Combeferre smiled. “I am honored to share your fate, my friend.”

Enjolras pulled him close. “And I am glad to have you with me as the end comes.”

_And I to my pledged word am true,_   
_I shall not fail that rendezvous._


End file.
